


Claws

by dinbird



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 08:02:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11870052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinbird/pseuds/dinbird
Summary: The claw marks lead inside, because of course they do, and Robert knows that they weren’t there a month ago.Or, a look at Robert and his cryptid thing.





	Claws

**Author's Note:**

> this is really a self-indulgent exercise to try to pin down Robert's narrative voice, but I think it came out pretty well, so hey, we're posting it. hope you'll like!

He tells the story like it’s bullshit, but like with all his bullshit, there’s a truth to it that he dresses up neatly because he’d rather have the whole thing dismissed than just the stuff that actually matters, and he still remembers that _thing_ he saw when he was a kid and had snuck out of the house.

That was a thing he’d done more than often enough. But the house always felt like curfew or prison because he was told to _stay in and be good, Robby_ whenever Pappy left to do his dirty work, and so Robert never stayed in or was good, because he learned from his old man to do what he did, not what he said.

Hypocrisy, he thinks these days, letting it taste bitter even when it’s not on his tongue, what a damn family trait. Nevermind the endless cycle of everything else.

Anyway.

That thing.

It’s not like Robert is actually telling himself he’ll find it when he’s out at night, or anything else for that matter – it’s more the excuse of it that it presents even to himself, to haul himself out of his place and get some damn space from his life. When he brings Betsy, she’s always excited. It’s almost nice, peaceful. Just him and the dog and the flashlight beam cutting through the trees. When he doesn’t bring her, it’s even quieter. Nice place to be. Good way to think without letting it all get too close to handle.

Still, sometimes there are things that remind him how there are definitely things out there that nobody knows or thinks about.

Like now. He’s crouching by the doorway to the old house, looking at faint marks on the crumbling steps. This house, he stumbled across it years ago, and he checks on it habitually by this point. Sometimes there’s beer cans and cigarette butts and petty vandalism, usually scratched into the decaying wood of the walls, because yeah, it’s a small town and people will always find what there is to find, but usually it sits fairly undisturbed.

Robert’s done some research. Last known home owner was Maggie Winters. Died in 1956, no next of kin to speak of. Eccentric old lady, by all accounts. Why the hell she had a house this squarely in the middle of nowhere is a question that kind of underscores that point.

Not that it was all woods, 60 odd years ago. There was a path but it’s overgrown. Trees closest to the house are apple, even if they don’t bear any fruit. He’s checked, out of curiosity. Probably better that they don’t, he thinks – seems like fruit grown in abandoned houses in the thick of the forest would be bad for your health, all things considered.

Betsy’s a bit uneasy next to him, and Robert pets her distractedly with one hand as he surveys the marks. Scratches, of some kind, looks like claws, like a creature at a run, like what he has in his own home from Betsy’s claws on the hardwood floors. Except these steps are stone, and even though the grooves aren’t exactly deep, they’re something. They’re visible. Particularly in the harsh cold light from the flashlight.

And they lead inside, because of course they do, and Robert knows that they weren’t there a month ago when he felt like taking a look and having a smoke in Maggie Winter’s company rather than his own or anyone else’s.

He stands and lights one now, breathes in the smoke deep, feels the hit of nicotine settle in his lungs before he lets it out slow through his lips. He’s always itching for a drink, but he’s not dumb enough to bring alcohol with him on these excursions. Besides, he drove here and is driving back, presumably. And contrary to popular belief he for some damn reason doesn’t actually want to die.

Betsy whines a little and looks off between the trees. There’s a rustling of leaves as the wind comes through. Robert’s not worried and isn’t easily spooked, but since Betsy’s looking that way, he does too while he works through the cigarette.

He grinds it beneath his heel into the dirt when he’s done with it and thinks _sorry Mags_ without actually feeling sorry, because while he likes what’s left of her house, he never knew the woman and one more cigarette littering what’s left of her no doubt once beautiful yard makes no difference.

But anyway, it’s the gesture of courtesy, at least. He’s never smoked inside. Might score him a few points, if Maggie’s around.

Not that he thinks so. Not that he’s sure she isn’t, but Robert thinks there would’ve been signs of her if she hadn’t moved on. The house has always been empty. _Felt_ empty, more importantly. And sure, no, it’s not like Robert can tell, ghosts really aren’t his thing, but he’s in and out of this house often enough that he still thinks he’d have noticed.

Thing is: it might not be so empty now.

“C’mere girl”, he says softly to Betsy, and she perks up when she turns to him and gets up on all her little paws and follows him obediently into the house. There’s no door, anymore, so the doorway always stands empty in a way that’s practically inviting but pretty damn intimidating, at least the first few times. Robert’s familiar with it, thinks that if he really had to he could probably navigate the house without a light, but he’s still grateful to have it because it’s dark as hell inside like it always is, and completely quiet if you ignore his boots and Betsy’s paws.

The scratches are still there on the floor. Stone floor, too, the ground level. If they continue up, Robert thinks they’ll be easier to see on the wood. He moves slowly. Whatever was here – and he’s not going to assume it _wasn’t_ an animal, he’s not an idiot, but he just can’t tell right now and that’s why he’s _looking_ – whatever was here, he assumes it’s long gone. Most things you only ever see once in your life and Robert saw it 30 some years ago, moving far too quickly and far too wrong through an alleyway a long way from where he is now.

He remembers letting out this yelp of alarm, and the thing – the fucking thing, he’ll never forget it – paused long enough to spare him a look before it disappeared.

Or he thinks it was a look. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember any eyes. Can’t remember anything but the action of the creature turning its head. It’s like his mind goes blank. He can’t even remember how the damn thing made its exit. He has no idea what he thought he saw, only that a second later, the alley was empty and he was shaking.

Second most frightening moment of his life, easy.

He doesn’t want to think about the memory that holds top place. He thinks about it often enough already.

The scratches disappear for a little while, or maybe he just loses track of them, but he’s not too worried about that either as he shines the flashlight into the kitchen and then the living room to see if anything is out of place more than you’d expect from, say, a couple of kids, a curious coyote, or whatever. It isn’t.

It’s a little break on one of the stairs to the second floor that catches his attention. A dent in the wood. And when he starts his way up the stairs which creak like they’re the star in a bad horror flick, he sees even more clearly that a chunk of it is missing.

Which makes him wonder.

Betsy doesn’t like that they’re stopping in the middle of the old stairs and snuffles against his hands when he touches the edges – splintered, uneven. Could be an accident. Could be unrelated. Could be torn out by the force of whatever had made its way up here, if it had claws and was heavy or strong enough to make dents in stone without stopping.

Like he thought, the claw marks are all the more notable now when he’s looking for them in the wood. The stairs have taken hits – there are gouges all over them, and on the landing, there’s a few more, longer ones.

Robert would never claim to be an expert on animals. Hell, even his cryptid thing, it’s not like he knows what he’s doing half the time. But something about what he’s seeing and about what he’s suddenly feeling seems … off. He turns around slowly, looking over his shoulder, and while there’s nothing there but the familiar old, deteriorating interior of the bedrooms up here that he knows pretty well by now, well.

Alright.

Something’s up.

He picks up Betsy who’s still uneasy and nuzzles into the scruff of her neck for a moment to calm both of them, then keeps her under his arm with her leash looped around his wrist as he keeps moving.

The marks lead him straight to what he considers the guest room. The long gouges on the floor makes it seem like something scrambling, in a hurry, and that makes Robert a lot more uneasy than if it’d just been the usual short drag marks that happen when animals lift their paws.

No, this is a hunt, or a chase. Which still doesn’t have to mean anything – prey could’ve easily gotten turned around and fled into this house, which is in the middle of the fucking woods and still offers some shelter, and whatever was chasing it could’ve followed.

Still.

He goes into the room.

The marks are all over the floor, but they lead to the window, and the damn window sill – the murky, soft old thing – is completely torn to shreds.

Whatever it was, it’s clearly not here anymore. Must’ve leapt out the window, which is empty, just a frame, just like the door downstairs and most other windows in this house. But Robert still pauses  for a long moment before he goes up to the window to look through it, Betsy still held firmly under his arm.

It yields him nothing but trees and trees and everything this forest is. Not that he would see any tracks from up here, but Jesus. Something. Fucking anything, really.

This is the most he’s seen in a long time and he has no idea what to make of it.

He lets Betsy down when she squirms, and he looks at her as she sniffs around, still not at ease. Kind of tense. Yeah, he gets that.

“Wanna go home?” She perks her ears right up and gives that kind of snort dogs do that can only be viewed as affirmative. He strokes his thumb over her head, tousles her ears affectionately. “Yeah, me too.”

He’ll come back the next day when there’s daylight and he might be able to find something from where the thing might’ve dropped down. See if there’s anything in the dirt or trees, any snapped branches, any obvious tracks.

He doubts it. It could’ve been days, and forests have residents. Anything he finds might be misleading. Doesn’t mean he won’t look.

As he exits the house on the crumbling steps with Betsy shaking herself off like she’s come out of the water, Robert’s mind drifts back to that thing from years and years ago and can’t help but construct a scenario he tells himself is a false memory:

It’s curled up on top of the chain-link fence dividing the alley in two, its body curled up and hunched over, its long limbs unnaturally agile as it grips the fence and turns its head –

and it leaps off with such force the whole thing rattles and the metal rod on top gets torn in two.


End file.
